The elevator doors closed with a soft sound. Floor numbers appeared one by one, lingering as if they had time to spare. In the reflection I caught your shoulder and the corner of your smile—easy, relaxed. You tilted your head, asking if this pace was right. It was.

The hallway held a gentle half-light. The keycard hummed; the door opened to a room with a warm lamp and a window facing the city. A teapot waited on the table beside two glasses. No one hurried.

“Window first or sit down?” you asked.
“Window,” I said. “Then two minutes of quiet.”
You smiled. The glasses touched so softly it was more gesture than sound.

The city below had the color of ink. We talked about small things: how cobbles feel after rain, where to cross the river when you don’t want to lose the evening’s pace, what jasmine tea does to the room at night. It wasn’t conversation for a result, more a way of tuning.

“If anything doesn’t fit, will you tell me?”
“Right away,” I nodded. “And you?”
“Right away.” It felt like an agreement rather than a rule.

At the window you let the curtain fall back into place with a calm hand. There was no big step to force—just consent made of small confirmations. It was exactly what I’d looked for while browsing our girls and reading a few quiet lines on each page. I knew I wanted a night that breathes.

“If you like, we can slow even more,” you said.
“Please,” I answered.

The lamp dimmed; a thin strip of bathroom light stayed on. The two minutes of quiet weren’t empty. They were full—soft reflections on the wall, movements that didn’t push. Your hand found mine naturally, like closing a book and letting the page rest.

Time unrolled. The clock lost importance. We had chosen our window, and it was enough. If I hesitated next time, I’d remember to pick a length that doesn’t invite clock-watching. The overview is clear on prices & packages.

“When you’re ready, let’s sit,” you suggested.
We sat close, hands on our knees, breathing easy. Yes and no took one sentence, sometimes only a look.

At the end we let the city’s light reach the rim of the glasses and stayed a few minutes in quiet. Going down, the elevator showed its numbers again, no longer urgent. They felt like marks on a map where you choose your own stops.

“Thank you,” I said at the door.
“Thank you,” you replied.

Later that night I glanced at who’s available—more out of habit than need. (When I plan the next window, I’ll take a quiet look at Today shifts .)

If it had a name, it would be short and exact: dusk, elevator, a slow yes.

‍

‍